


Lyme Regis

by Gemenied



Series: Blue Skies [13]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not exactly Sugartown</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lyme Regis

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: freedom

**Lyme Regis**

It's the wind in her face, she decides, that makes the difference between before and now. It's also a little scary that it happens. The past nine years haven't done much for her intake of actual fresh air. Ventilation was always on down in the basement, but when did she really get outside and anywhere near something like a natural setting?

They've been disbanded and she's been retired. The official holly-bolly is still to happen, but basically she should now add an 'ex' to each of her professional titles.

The thought stings more than she cares to admit. Despite the fact that she can still write books and articles and thus stay in touch with her profession, it will now all be academic. She already misses the hands on aspect.

Sometimes the surge is so strong that it almost burns her insides. It is painful to give up what has been her life for so long.

She wanders on, slowly, and to the casual onlooker, she might appear to savour the chance to leave her footsteps in the wet sand. Occasionally, she bends down to pick up a pebble or a shell, which would enforce the onlooker's opinion.

He'd be wrong, though.

She's killing time and for her, that is as sad as it sounds.

She has now what one would consider as absolute freedom. She's got time to do whatever she wants and she's got enough money to make it happen. Frankly, though, she doesn't know what to do.

Getting away hasn't brought on any bright insight. In fact, meandering along the shore is depressing her even more.

It's not yet full season and just as she arrived, the weather took a turn for the worse. Overhung skies, wind, the occasional shower. There are barely any people around, many tourist ventures still closed. It leaves her with too much time on her hands. Too much time to watch the telly (hardly recommended with the rubbish that's on), too much time to read (she can't settle on any plot) or - and this is the worst - too much time to think.

Which she does.

She thinks of the last years, of the future. She also thinks of him.

Which is a mistake.

There are too many "What ifs" between them, but she doubts any of them will come to fruition. It pains her more than she dares to admit to herself, mainly because her mind always told her that this would be the way. It doesn't change the pain she feels, now that the story unfolds in this manner.

Their unit is no more, and thus their relationship has been altered completely. They were colleagues and she would easily say friends, but now - without being together daily - she's almost certain that their friendship will wither. She isn't one to pursue something - their friendship, or him - relentlessly. He wouldn't deal well with it, and she finds it desperate and embarrassing. Accordingly, she deeply regrets leaving him with the information on where she is.

That he hasn't called or texted or anything is clear enough a message.

It intensifies her feeling alone, lonely really, and the huge black hole of so-called freedom looms ever larger and ever less attractive.

The clouds are darker now, promising more rain.

It would be just the thing to tip her mood into downright depression, if she got drenched on her way back. There's nothing worse than sitting in a lonely hotel room, with only your thoughts for company and listening to the rain, while your entire room, your clothes and yourself are damp.

Sardonically, she thinks that a bottle of expensive red wine might not be enough to make that bearable.

She turns, determined to pick up her pace and reach the place before that happens.

She never makes it.

He's standing there, shaking his head at her. It might be an apparition or an illusion, but then he tuts and says, "You're losing it, Grace. Just a few days away and you don't even notice when you are followed?"

She snorts, because it's the first and only reaction she's capable of.

It's only a few steps they need to close the distance and when they do, she sees something in his eyes that is foreign to her.

"You followed me?"

He shrugs - a little sheepish, a little amused, a little 'nobody dare touch her'.

"Somebody needs to make sure..."

He leaves the sentence unfinished and it hits her then that one bottle of expensive red might still not be enough, but for wholly different reasons.

They begin their slow trek back, not speaking at first. They will be, though, by the time they reach her hotel. They will laugh by then too. They'll also be completely drenched by the deluge.

There will be the sound of rain against the windows and the room, their clothes will be damp.

The sheets and their bodies will be as well, but it will have nothing to do with the rain.

They both believe this to happen at some point, but they aren't voicing it. Yet.

It's no longer the wind in her face, but the wind against her back, and she thinks that this might be the exact measure of freedom.


End file.
